How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies: A Family Portrait, a Mirror
by Heesun Park
This review may contain spoilers.
I’ve been annoyed with my grandpa—my picky, stubborn, and grumpy grandpa—and it’s all because I took him to Korea with me this past summer.
I thought it would be a breeze; a lovely homecoming. But instead, the old man had me running around Seoul like a headless chicken trying to satisfy him. All the food I bought him was a transgressive imposter of the food he would eat in America, and every moment outside of his usual daily routines warranted a complaint—which, of course, meant that every moment we spent together in Korea warranted a complaint.
In other settings, my grandpa’s fussiness wouldn’t have been such a problem. But something about balancing his care while also dutifully performing the gender roles that were expected of me had me thinking, “What is all this for?” The seventh granddaughter out of my 11 cousins, the daughter of my grandparents’ only son and youngest child after my three aunts, my existence is simply low in the family hierarchy. I know my grandparents love me. But I also know that despite all I do for them, I will never be able to overcome the family ranking I was born into. The highest compliment I will ever receive is most likely a comment remarking how ready I am to go to 시집—that is, to my future in-laws.
The Thai film breaking box office records and filling movie theaters all around the globe with tears, How To Make Millions Before Grandma Dies (2024) is a comedy-drama about a college dropout, M, who elects himself as the caretaker of his cancer-stricken grandmother, Mengju, in hopes of inheriting her assets.
Being a major Thai studio production with what is essentially a money scheme at the center of its plot, there is definitely a version of this that checks off all the commercial sensibility boxes: cliché tropes, evil family members, and the occasional slapstick comedy moment. Just from the opening scene, however, it’s obvious that the direction of How To Make Millions is something entirely different.
Like its title unabashedly mentions, we begin the film with death. But it isn’t a drab and dreary scene. Surrounded by lush greenery, a gentle breeze, and her loved ones, Mengju prays before a random standalone grave—a cemetery plot that costs millions to purchase and one that Mengju wants for herself when she passes. M soon interrupts his grandmother to announce the arrival of the buried’s actual family and Mengju, M, M’s mother, and two uncles hurriedly and awkwardly flee the scene. A bright piano score plays and we see flickers of other families in the cemetery also celebrating Tomb-Sweeping Day before returning to Mengju and her own at their humble family gravesite. As M’s mother assists Mengju in preparing the food offerings, M and his uncles stand aloof. With this, we gain a sense of who M is as well as M’s family dynamics.
These few minutes exemplify the direction and storytelling of Pat Boonnitipat, who makes his feature-length directorial debut with the film. Thoughtfully blocked shots along with tender and nuanced depictions of Asian family dynamics—even with its comedic moments, Boonnitipat’s vision is reminiscent of the delicateness of Hirokazu Koreeda’s Still Walking (2008). Like Koreeda, Boonnitipat understands how humans operate—how we feel, how we communicate, and the codes we live under—and, like Koreeda, it shows through the complexity of all his characters.
The chemistry between M and Mengju is, of course, the beating heart to How To Make Millions. Despite the mechanics of the plot centering around his attempts to compete with his male relatives and curry favor with his ailing grandmother, there is never a moment where it feels as if M’s transformation is polluted with ill intent. He is a real grandson, and likewise, Mengju is a real grandmother. The performances of Putthipong Assaratanakul and Usha Seamkhum, both making their feature film acting debuts through these roles, portray the nuances of their characters and relationships with charm and seemingly lived experience.
What perhaps resonated with me the most, however, were the moments spent with Mengju and M’s mother, Sew. The only women in the family, it is by nature of Asian patriarchy that they exist outside the procession of family inheritance. Their characters are rich with nuance, reality, and sacrifice, feeling more like a sincere portrait and recognition of Asian womanhood than hollow vessels for commentary. It is through them that the core message, and lesson that M ultimately learns, is personified: Love can only be expressed and reciprocated with love itself.
There’s a scene in the film where one of M’s uncles visits Mengju to install accessibility bars in her bathroom. He finishes the job, notices the ripe pomegranate on the tree outside, and asks Mengju to give him one much to her vehement refusal. She says that she’s saving the fruit for someone else, but it isn’t known until much later who that someone is. And, in an act of silent forgiveness, it’s revealed. It was always M.
When I came back to the States with my grandfather, I dropped him off at his home and didn’t see him again for several weeks. By the time I saw him again, it was already fall. The first thing he did when he saw me was stuff a handful of dates in my pocket. In a quiet voice and mischievous smile, he told me, “These are just for you.”
